


Death and Taxes

by Argyle



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-19
Updated: 2007-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something to be said for shared cultural experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Taxes

  
There’s something to be said for shared cultural experience, for having a touchstone in your life that’s also a touchstone in the life of another.  
  
You wait in line at the water park, chat with the people around you, and suddenly realize why your mother was so adamant about dashing that last gob of sunscreen across your shoulders: it’s really fucking bright up there. But you’ve made it to the top, and as easy as crumb cake with a bowl of butterflied-stomach on the side, you’re careening down the slide with naught but several hundred cubic inches of air and sweltering rubber to cushion your ass.  
  
Then it’s all over. You’re winded, shell-shocked. The kid in front of you wipes chlorinated water from his eyes, smiling at you from the deck. You’ve been through something together, though it’s not quite the same. It’s not quite interchangeable. And yet it’s close enough. All you can think to do is beat him back to the line and know you won’t be the last one to recognize the ghosts of those who came before.  
  
Shared cultural experience.  
  
Moon landings, floods, post-Thanksgiving sales.  
  
Tax day.  
  
Like the latest hotspot on a lemming tour brochure, Der Waffle Haus fills with last-minute filers. They come with boxes and envelopes, catalogues and folios, folders and satchels and laptops. They come with their W-2s, their pay-stubs, their receipts; they come with excuses.  
  
They’re there to get away, to escape scrutiny. They’re there to drink bottomless cups of coffee, to nibble pencils and justify the deeds of the previous year.  
  
They ask themselves this: “Can two weeks in Tahiti be categorized as a business expense?” and, “Just when does a family member’s funeral constitute charity?”  
  
The evening wears on.  
  


*   *   *

  
  
“You have ink on your hands, Georgia.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Daisy scrunches her nose. “Ink,” she says. “Blue ink.”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t think the machines read purple,” George mumbles. “Or lipstick.”  
  
“Such a pity.”  
  
“Right. Do you have a reason for being here? An appointment or something?”  
  
Daisy smiles, never missing a beat, “You’d really think those people -- those _accountants_ \-- would welcome a bit of variety. A well-placed heart here, a whiff of Shalimar there--” she snaps her fingers “--and poof! Into the _PASS_ pile.”  
  
“Somehow I don’t think the IRS takes kindly to bribes.”  
  
“It’s more like a friendly offer. You don’t think Greta Garbo made it through all those years in haughty seclusion without an audit for nothing, do you?”  
  
“Maybe she had diplomatic status.”  
  
“Or maybe she was smart.”  
  
“I’m smart,” George protests weakly. “ _She_ was Swedish.”  
  
“You’re sitting in a diner at nine-thirty at night with and a stack of unfinished paperwork in front of you and two pots of coffee running through your veins. Not exactly what I’d call a Nobel-caliber achievement.”  
  
“Three, actually.”  
  
Daisy’s eyes widen. She’s impressed, but tries to hide it. “Do you have any idea what that amount of caffeine will do to your complexion?”  
  
“I bet it’s fatal in lab rats over a period of years, right? I’ve only been here since noon.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“The answer to the _Times_ chess puzzle is black bishop right to take white knight, and black queen forward two for the checkmate.”  
  


*   *   *

  
  
“C’mon, Georgie-girl. Spot me a fiver for a short stack and sausage. Just this once.”  
  
“Sorry, Mason.”  
  
“Okay. How about four-fifty for a baked potato with sour cream and those dodgy little bits of bacon-flavored rubber?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Four dollars for a slice of pie and chocolate milk?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Three for a side of green beans? Two for a hardboiled egg? I’m _starving_ here. Look! Skin and bones.” Mason pushes his sleeve back to reveal a thin, pale bicep. “I’m literally wasting away into nothingness. And then like a wisp of cloud on spring’s first morn, I’ll be gone.”  
  
“That should make it all the more easy to slip into a bank vault.”  
  
“I won’t make it _to_ the bank vault if I can’t lift my head off the tarmac!”  
  
“Parking violation. I’ll let Roxy know you’re coming.”  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
George takes a long sip of coffee, tapping her pen on the tabletop. “Does it look like I have money to burn? Because I don’t.”  
  
“Fine, and fuck you very much,” Mason hisses glumly. Then he swiftly reaches forward for the nearest of George’s tax documents, turns it left and right, and squints to decipher the fine print. “What’s all this, then?”  
  
“Taxes.”  
  
“It says here you made twelve grand since June.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So you should lend me a fiver.”  
  
“I don’t even have enough to cover the toast I ate two hours ago.”  
  
“Are you saying you owe the government money?”  
  
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re buggered.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“I mean, isn’t that what you people were on about?” Mason pulls the sugar caddy towards him, and then begins emptying pink and white packets onto his tongue two at a time. He crunches as he continues, “‘No taxation without representation,’ or else there’ll be a great big bloody mess in the harbor. I don’t know about you, but I’ve not seen anything about the civil rights of the dearly departed make headlines lately.”  
  
George blinks.  
  
When Kiffany swings by to refill her cup, she orders two short stacks: one with a side of sausage and the other with whipped cream. Mason borrows another ten dollars before slipping out the door.  
  


*   *   *

  
  
It’s not that George is surprised to see Rube, or that she hadn’t expected him. Rather, it’s the familiar gait, the sneaker-softened footfall past the first row of booths, the placid expression, when coupled with the ream of paperwork beneath his arm, which momentarily causes her stomach to clench.  
  
Sure, it could be reaper stuff, death notices or famous last words. It could be a jumpstart on the following day’s jobs. But it isn’t. George has worked within the confines of mortal bureaucracy for long enough to recognize its trappings, and by the look of it, Rube has a very long night ahead of him.  
  
But then again, he seems to hesitate on the threshold. He glances left and right at the crowded tables, the stricken expressions. And then again, he spots George at their usual table, making a beeline to meet her.  
  
“It’s the fifteenth,” he says, unable or unwilling to disguise the glint in his eyes. He slides onto the opposite seat. “Do you make it a habit to run everything down to the wire, or just on special occasions?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” she replies, folding her hands before her. “Even the earliest check-in doesn’t save you from being late.”  
  
“Life’s little certainties.”  
  
“Give or take. But you know, if you feed someone enough coffee they’ll eventually admit to having started the Chicago fire.”  
  
“Be sure to write some of the idioms down. One day you’ll fill a book.”  
  
“Oh, sure. I’ll keep that in mind for those long, lonely days at the federal penitentiary.”  
  
“That bad, eh?”  
  
“Mm.” George drums her fingertips on the table. “So are you here to finish _your_ taxes?”  
  
Rube narrows his eyes, shifting his forearms to shield the overfilled folio. Ragged sheets headlined by terms like 'Final Memorandum' and 'Bill of Sale' peep out from the sides. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think those look like taxes.”  
  
“I’m dead, peanut. I paid my dues long ago.”  
  
George nods and briefly surveys the surrounding tables. The patrons punch calculators, push papers, occasionally doze. Kiffany continues her rounds. “You’ve always struck me as a stocks and bonds kind of guy. Am I right?”  
  
The shadow of a smile crosses Rube’s mouth. Almost imperceptibly, he nods.  
  
“Let me guess: every few decades, the entire portfolio gets passed down to a new name from a mysterious great uncle who suddenly kicks it, and you rake in the proceeds as estate executor.”  
  
“You have an uncanny handle on the system, such as it is. Is that on the standard syllabus of Economics 101?”  
  
“I’ve seen _Highlander_ a couple of times,” George concedes, and leans forward over the table. “So, IBM? GE? Halliburton?”  
  
“Treasury notes.”  
  
“And utilities?”  
  
“Here and there.”  
  


*   *   *

  
  
“Why do you make this so hard on yourself?” Roxy asks, and takes a long sip of iced tomato juice. Her meter maid cap rests upon her head at a slightly jaunty angle, not quite off-center, and it makes her appear at once tired and willful. “I finished mine _months_ ago.”  
  
“Thanks,” George says, slumping further down into the seat. “Thanks.”  
  
“I don’t get it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Year after year, people promise to not leave their taxes to the last minute. Taxes, George. Fucking taxes. And what do they do?”  
  
“Leave them to the last minute?”  
  
Roxy laughs shortly. “Don’t tell me. It’s your first time, isn’t it?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Haven’t you ever had a job before?”  
  
“Yeah,” George says, not meeting Roxy’s eye. “Sort of.”  
  
“And didn’t you file a return?”  
  
“My dad always took care of it. Look, if you’re just going to sit here--”  
  
“Take a deep breath.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
And George had heard her. She takes a deep breath.  
  
“Now close your eyes.”  
  
“Okay. So this accomplishes what, exactly?”  
  
“It accomplishes me kicking your ass if you don’t settle down and listen.”  
  
George closes her eyes.  
  
“Good,” Roxy says. “Deep breaths. Let it all roll over you.”  
  
A moment passes, and then another. George’s limbs feel heavy and still. When she opens her eyes again, the first rays of dawn scatter through the east windows; in the dull light, the tables are worn, and the living seem outnumbered by ghosts.  
  
“Feel better?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
A pause, and then, “Just how much do you owe?”  
  
“I haven’t figured that out yet. It’s kind of like watching Old Bessy being taken to the glue factory, only with my life. Death. Whatever.”  
  
“Just take it easy.”  
  
“Right,” George mumbles, and begins sorting through her paperwork. “Tune in next time for a very special episode of _Girl Meets Grave_...”  
  
Roxy shrugs, finishes her drink, and adjusts her collar. “You forgot to carry the one.”


End file.
